


In the Park

by VerdantMoth



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kissing, Public Nudity, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-08-23 14:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16620761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: He kisses you, the chastes brushing of lips, balances himself with a hand to your chest, and everything inside of you shuts down. You’re frozen, locked into the warmth radiating from long fingers and a broad palm and everything you are centers around the feel of his skin against yours.





	In the Park

You see him. It’s like he glows. Not like the sun, not like the moon, like a distant star, maybe, cloaked in the comfort of a dark blanket, despite the warmth of the day.

You see him, under the tree,  _ your tree,  _ and you flush.  _ It’s the sun,  _ you tell yourself. Because he looks at you, and his eyes a storm clouds, blue and bruised and so violent you worry about your foundation.

He looks at you like you’re a glare, blinding and too hot and in his way. You don’t get it, don’t understand the rage beneath a cloud of dark hair.

The sun shines high and bright in the sky and you strip your shirt off in part to wipe the sweat from your brow but also because he is still staring and you  _ want  _ him to see you. Want him to stare, to be amazed.

He frowns, purses plump lips and ducks his head down. You aren’t sure what he’s doing; he’s it buried beneath that damn blanket, but you feel a bit irritated he dismisses you so easily. It’s not- you aren’t vain. You’re not Gwaine, no rugged charm, or Lance, with the bones of a model, but you aren’t wholly unattractive either. Your bed isn’t empty unless you want it to be.

He does though, dismiss you. You spend an hour running circles around the park, pretending to listen to music while you study him. He doesn’t look up, not once. You even think he falls asleep and you’re half concerned about him, but then he startles himself awake. You snort, then laugh outright at the confusion on his face and though it’s impossible he stares at you like he heard.

The briefest flicker of a smile darts beneath his cheeks, and then he’s standing, blanket falling to the ground and  _ fuck everything  _ but he is beautiful. This is a private park, one with limited access and you’re aware people like to walk a bit freely here, but you’ve never seen someone this free. 

But he is miles of pale skin over sharp bones. He is rivers of tar-colored curls and sun kissed spots and he is approaching you. You’re not entirely sure what to do, where to look, because those bruised-storm eyes are shining with mischief and you’re afraid.

He doesn’t say much, when he gets close to you, just stops in front of you and cocks his head. You want something from him, anything. You want to curl your fingers around his biceps, lock them in the curls at the nape of his neck. You want to trace the veins of his legs with your tongue, to taste the salt and sweat glistening under his chin.

He seems to know this, seems so very aware of the thoughts in your head, because he leans forward, until you can feel the ghost of his breath against your lips. You’re suspended in this moment. You cannot feel the beats of the sun, the wisp of the wind. You cannot hear the calls of the bird, or the grumble of the cars. You cannot smell yourself, or the flowers, and you cannot see the emptiness of the park or anything at all save for the dark lashes closing over storm-eyes. You think God himself could strike you down and you’d miss it.

And then he is pulling away, stepping around you. He has abandoned his blanket, abandoned the book, and he is leaving, and you cannot have that.

But he does not look back, just strolls into the buildings connected to the park. You wait for a moment, wait to calm down, and then you go to your tree and you pick up the blanket and you pick up the book.

It’s a simple thing, full of nonsensical lines in a messy, loopy scribble.

On the front, it says:  _ Return to Merlin.  _ There’s no address, but there is a number.

 


End file.
